


Patching Up the Loom That Is the Past

by Hobbitrocious



Series: The Bruschetta Universe (Don't Ask) [2]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: ABDL, Age Play, Age Regression/De-Aging, C-PTSD Sherlock, Child Neglect, Childhood Trauma, Comfort/Angst, Daddy Issues, Daddy!John, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Empath Sherlock, Eventual Fluff, HSP (Highly Sensitive Person), Infantilism, M/M, Mommy Issues, Nature Versus Nurture, Non-Sexual Age Play, Nudity, Nurturing Kink, Pre-Slash, Reparenting, little!sherlock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-06
Updated: 2017-01-04
Packaged: 2018-03-16 15:47:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 15,197
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3493946
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hobbitrocious/pseuds/Hobbitrocious
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock, long teetering toward a nervous breakdown, finally reaches a point at which he must admit he can't bear to keep John at arm's length anymore. He's been ignoring his infantile side far more than necessary for work and now it's pushing to the forefront out of sheer desperation while his mind also demands the comfort and security of having a 'Daddy' or 'caretaker'. Will John catch on to the hints Sherlock can no longer help dropping in time to keep the lonely detective from completely self destructing? Moreover, will John be willing to help once he discovers Sherlock's peculiar needs?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: AAAANGST. Potential trigger warnings for mentions of unhappy childhood, Reactive Attachment Disorder type stuff and neglect/abandonment issues, and maybe nuances of C-PTSD (not to be confused with PTSD. The mechanics and manifestations are significantly different.)
> 
> Overall Disclaimer: This is me finally trying to write something that, as my own 'Watson' has urged me to do, is a fic written for myself. (Or, rather, this is the nonsexual half of said endeavour. I wrote a separate story to fulfil the flipside.) In other words, this is the author dumping half his uninteresting life issues on you poor, unsuspecting readers through his Holmes puppet, and I apologise.
> 
> Super-Long Author's Note O' Doom: This is a modernised rehash of my Victorian 'verse vignette "Deconstructed", which, due to restrictions involved in avoiding anachronisms common to ABDL as most of us know it, finished off at only three pages long. I felt I could do a lot more by bumping it into present-era just for the sake of the topic matter. I don't endorse generally modernising the SH fandom. This is not based on any of the modernised TV variations that have come out in the past thirty-odd years, all of which I have vehemently avoided knowledge of, so complaints that I've completely missed the mark on particular TV 'verse characterisation/representation will be pointedly ignored. Just fair warning there.
> 
> More forewarning, I'm taking great liberties in representation of 221B's layout as a modern-era flat and assuming that renovations have been done and an open-plan kitchen + living area have been created in the upstairs rooms for the purpose of renting out that floor. Just 'cause having everything upstairs seems easier. *Gets pelted with rotten fruit by nitpicking squad*
> 
> The fandom/setting choice for this fic and its counterpart, "Unsystematic", was also inspired by a strange series of dreams I've been having across the past two years. Apparently I've meshed with a certain someone on the astral plane whom I've never so much as had contact with IRL. O_o; IDEK. I'm hoping I never come across evidence that said other person is having the same dreams, because that would be way too creeptastic. Many previous (failed) attempts to write a similar story in Victorian 'verse have been cannibalised for this story, but I'm considering uploading all those unfinished tidbits as one "fic" just to show them in their original context, especially since they'd otherwise never see the light of day. 
> 
> Anyway, this story can be taken loosely as a prequel to "Unsystematic". But read all warnings on that one first, 'cause it's nothing like this fic.
> 
> Both fics were written during a long, long stretch of being internetless, so I wasn't able to check whether the AB community trended away from the terminology I'm used to or not. (Prolonged Interweb withdrawal... Like... You. have. no. idea... *clings like junkie to shiny new modem* Methinks this is why I've wasted so much time on fleshing out my Author's Comments.) 
> 
> On that note, I've also discovered that words I grew up with for common childhood things were often not the same as the vernacular. For example, we said "nappie" for naptime and just "diaper" for diaper. For the sake of my own Little, I'll mostly be using the words that are familiar to me. I know it can be bothersome as a reader to see the 'wrong' words for some things, especially if you're reading while Little or just happen to slip into headspace. If you're one of those people who saves all your favourite stories into text documents, feel free to do a bit of Find & Replace on those words; just don't redistribute the fic without my consent, altered or unaltered. Thanks.
> 
> The occasional non-English words I was used to hearing as a kid and still prefer when ageplaying are changed to French in this story for hopeful universe meshing, but I've never taken French lessons, so please do correct me if I muck it up so I learn the correct way!
> 
> To my fellow nitpickers: the backstory presented here (and in "Deconstructed") is a deliberate play on circumstances. I know full well what the first page of "The Greek Interpreter" states.
> 
> No beta; all mistakes are mine... unlike the recognisable fandom elements.  
> Ask my permission first if you find the unlikely desire to link or archive my work. Zhank yoo.
> 
> Praise and thanks be to Abba YHWH, who allows me to express myself through this writing and in so many other ways!

"My god," John massaged the bridge of his nose and groaned, "it's like talking to a child."

Sherlock froze, their argument regarding the ethics of Sherlock's rice and birdseed experiment suddenly of no importance. 

John couldn't know the irony in his words. 

He'd said similar things to Sherlock before, and plenty often in their near-year together as flatmates. There was no underlying 'I know what you are' in John's voice, just sheer exasperation with an ounce of resignation.

Albeit subtly, Sherlock pushed the envelope all the same, needing to on this occasion. 

Without turning to face John, he angled his head back in his direction just enough to ask, calmly and openly, "So what are you going to do about it?"

John was silent for a beat, flustering for a response. Outside, the unwary pigeon fled the windowsill, not knowing how very lucky it was.

"... You mean what am I going to do about you behaving like a child?" was John's jibe at Sherlock. He fumed a bit more over the interruption of his quiet reading time, and Sherlock's apparent flippancy, before muttering, "I'm going to finish my book upstairs, that's what I'm going to do about it."

Unseen, Sherlock's face fell into a mask of despair as John levered himself out of the armchair and headed for the solitude of the attic bedroom.

He anticipated, of course, that John would respond in this vein. But if only he had given Sherlock something! Something to take and run with, to introduce the notion. To justify asking to call him Daddy.

In his usual impatiently patient way, Sherlock would wait for that opportunity one more day. And that day would turn into a week. And when all was said and done, that day and that week would stretch into another year, plus more.

Feeling a rare case of tears coming on - well, not so very rare if Sherlock was honest with himself - he whisked off to his own bedroom down the creaky, lonely hall.

Sherlock flopped onto his side atop his bed, arms crossed, in a blatant pout. A familiar whirling coil of loneliness and grief welled inside him, making his eyes itch and his chest tighten. For no logical reason, he felt as though John had abandoned him; as though, as Sherlock's father, had stormed off in anger and left him horribly alone as punishment for simply wanting to be closer.

 _He's agreed to nothing_ , Sherlock's mind said to itself, rambling at half-speed in a bleary, emotional attempt to rationalise against the overwhelming urge to cry, _John's grasp of this situation is nil. Pursuing this can only end in pain._

If John did know what Sherlock wanted, he probably wouldn't agree to it.

No one would. Long-term especially, people found Sherlock too much to handle as his adult self; how on earth could he ask it of someone to deal directly with his overly needy 'little' side on top of the rest?  
_  
It would be asking too much_ , his mind bounced back at him. Indeed, he agreed, it would.

He imagined how wrong such a conversation might go. Snippets of an outraged John Watson, making large, emphatic gestures while he laid into Sherlock for being so utterly intolerable, played through Sherlock's head. The row played through in a multitude of variations, interspersed with the occasional unlikely show of sympathy.

Sherlock started to feel sick to his stomach; it was twisting up in knots. He thought about sucking his thumb, desperately needing to soothe himself, then remembered with relief that a clean pacifier was in his bedside drawer.

The acknowledgement of how ingrained the need was, how far gone he would appear to an onlooker, and of how far out of reach that put the rest of the world was what finally spilled out his tears. The dam burst as his long fingers fumbled about in the bedside stand. He found the cheery cherry-red plastic guard by feel, his vision too wet, and popped the oversized rubber nipple between his lips.

Not that he had an overwhelming urge to be closer to the world in general. Quite the reverse. But John's tolerances were so much more... normal, so much more pedestrian than Sherlock was capable of conforming to. John, in a way, was 'the rest of the world' to Sherlock.

At least Sherlock was able to give himself a pat on the back for using his pacifier and not a cigarette. He momentarily longed for some hard alcohol and a pack of kreteks. Jaegermeister or some cheap brandy, he thought distantly. Not wine. Wine made him far too maudlin in large quantities.

He sniffled and sighed around his 'nippy-nip', wondering if John might ever appreciate the effort he was putting into not imposing himself as a smoke-spewing tornado of loud, weepy, frustrated drunkenness out in the living room right now.

Not to mention the issue John would take if Sherlock dug out the cocaine. In addition to which there were the dregs of a few other interesting substances acquired on old cases and forays into the seedier side of his informant network.

The last thing his adult aspect did before slipping away was rationalise that this, letting the weepy baby in him slip to the forefront, was better than the alternative for everyone involved. With that very small shred of comfort, Sherlock let himself fall.

The baby cried hard and painfully, his throat becoming sore from stifling all the sobbing that he couldn't let John hear. What would have been heart-rending wails were no more than a hoarse stream of air escaping the grimace with which Sherlock was fixed. He mastered silent crying decades ago; it was automatic now. Even his little side, so much freer with emotion once he acknowledged its existence, was that methodically repressed.

He was ill-adjusted all around. For that, Sherlock cried harder. His eyelids were so puffy with the tears that they ached along with the rest of him. He continued to sniffle into his pillow. If not for the overly large rubber teat lifting his palate to the benefit of his lower sinuses, he would not have been able to breathe for all the snot congealing within him.

A small part of him always wondered at how physical the manifestation of sadness was. All the better he avoided it.

He had wound himself down considerably when he thought about John's disparaging attitude again and how paternal it was. How fatherly and caring and doting John could be to Sherlock if he so desired. 

The potential was there, was it not? Or was Sherlock willing himself to fit facts to suit theories rather than the other way around?

 _It will never happen_ , Sherlock berated himself for the umpteenth time. He started crying all over again.

He just wanted Daddy to come downstairs, to open the door and see how sorry his little boy was for everything, and to love him enough to accept him this way. With a bittersweet pang, Sherlock allowed himself the indulgence of imagining John coming in, sitting next to him on the bed, and gathering him into a warm hug. All would have been forgiven in that hug, and John could start fresh with Sherlock. He could show Sherlock the kind of sweet boy he wanted him to be, and Sherlock would be so obedient and careful. He wanted to be a pleasant, good little baby for Daddy, even if he knew he'd get mopey from time to time and wouldn't always give John an easy go of it.

Sherlock hated that he secretly craved to be hugged and coddled and... loved.

Love, in his generation of the Holmes family, was a word the kids heard precisely once a day at bedtime until Sherlock was given his own small bedroom in the remodelled basement. Beyond that, it went unspoken if it existed at all. Completing studies on time and playing quietly after Dad got home and finishing all of dinner to avoid Mummy's consequences were the important things. Affection ranked much lower.

In short, love was superfluous - and dangerous - and he knew it. Which was why he still had such difficulty justifying his want for it after all this time. And wanting it from his unsuspecting flatmate, no less.

Sherlock wondered if his recent cravings for affection might not have sprouted had he not been stupid enough to live in such close quarters with someone, and, at that, someone who grew up with it; with steady affection. John's demeanour, his very bearing, spoke of an easygoing confidence that seemed to correlate with, as Sherlock had come to discern, at least one solid, consistent relationship with a demonstratively affectionate adult through developmental years. The only way Sherlock could think of the contrast between them was in those removed, analytical terms; if it were to sound any more personal, he could not bear it.

Because thinking about how Mummy sneered at him, one night when he was eight, and told him she was still too cross with him (for whatever the hell now it was that he'd done earlier in the day) to give him his goodnight hug, and her hugging and kissing Mycroft's cheek all the more tenderly for skipping over him, and the way she'd bitten out the words when Sherlock nervously tried to wheedle at least an 'I love you' from her as she headed out the bedroom door...

The words meant nothing.

Sherlock did whimper aloud then. His eight-year-old self, way back then, resolved never to let such a thing happen again. He could not bear the pain nor humiliation of a repeat of Mummy's rejection, so he rejected her in turn. As a preventative measure. From that time on, after a week or two of working through his hurt, angry, childish version of mourning, she was dead to him. The sadistic woman ruling over his life was not his mummy, she was just a mean lady standing in for the role because someone had to. She obviously loved Mycroft, who was very much 'her child' in his mannerisms and look. Sherlock was more of a strangely perfect, almost mathematical blend of his parents; he was that unusual consanguineous halfway point, the scientific and genetic ideal that incorporated the intellectual variety and inherent skills from both branches of his family, but also drew equally from the myriad of flaws on both sides.

He knew he wasn't as lovable or endearing, as cherubic or well-behaved in his mother's eyes as Mycroft was. Sherlock figured he did well to distance himself from her after she made that fateful slip and showed him where he stood. For all Mrs. Holmes claimed nowadays that Sherlock was too distant, that he was still her son, he knew better. She didn't want to see him, not as strongly as she claimed she did. She was content with keeping Mycroft close, just as she always was. Sherlock felt more like property than a family member. He was hers the same as her hairbrush was hers or her car was hers. She was possessive, not motherly.

And his father, same as ever, didn't pay much mind to the boys. He never had been much enthused about the idea of having children of his own. Not that he wasn't proud of Mycroft's career, but, then, the entire family fawned over that.

Sherlock wanted to know what it was like to be an only child with a doting Daddy who genuinely enjoyed spending time with him. Not an alcoholic-workaholic Daddy who only stepped in when Mummy needed help enforcing her discipline.

And, ugh, the discipline... Sherlock would never know how Mycroft managed to pin so many of his misdoings on Sherlock. He was reasonably certain that, even taking into account Mummy's disdain, Mummy would not have punished him for so many things if she had not honestly believed Mycroft when he went and lied to her under the pretence of having dutifully tattled on his mischievous brother. Mycroft's powers of deception rivalled those of his observation; Sherlock knew now the two went hand in hand.

Sherlock knew he had done plenty of things himself that did merit punishment, some of which Mycroft legitimately tattled on him for, but things had gotten well out of hand once Mycroft discovered that all he had to do was gaze up at Mummy silently with his perfectly feigned innocence to make her turn on Sherlock without a shred of doubt in her conviction.

Baby was sick of being punished. He was sick of being alone. Even now he felt as though Mummy had sent him to his room for a solitary time-out and he was waiting for her to set him free.

He peered with watery eyes to the door, wanting John to come in and tell him everything would be alright if only Sherlock would be a good boy for him. He wanted John to offer him cuddles, and to press the cuddles on him freely when Sherlock hesitated to accept. He wanted more than anything for John to take initiative and fawn over him, to give him the love he needed whether Sherlock let on that he wanted it or not.

 _It's never going to happen_ , he thought again.

Choking on his tears, Sherlock slowly sat up and stripped down to his underthings. He already reeked of anxiety, of nerve-wracked perspiration. Clad in only the plain white basics, he snuggled under the bedcovers and worked out his frustration on his pacifier. He settled in for the duration; he knew he was too worn out to be 'big' again today.


	2. Chapter 2

"Baby needs to go wee-wee, hm?" the imaginary doppelganger of John whispered fondly into Sherlock's ear. Sherlock pretended this John was real.

"Come on, let's get you to the potty before you wet the bed. Up you go."

Sherlock grunted in protest behind his pacifier, (his nippie, the ghost of Mrs. Holmes' voice chimed in,) but gradually rolled off the bed all the same, knowing Daddy was right. He studiously ignored the fact that he couldn't feel Daddy's hand when Daddy reached down to rub Sherlock's tummy to verify the state of his bladder. Instead, he blushed and arched just a bit into the nonexistent touch.

Pretend-John chuckled and stood, drawing away to the door and beckoning with his fingers for Sherlock to follow.

Sherlock scooted across the carpet after him and stopped at the door. He took a minute to listen for signs that the real John Watson might be about the flat, but it seemed quiet enough.

To save Sherlock from having to think directly about taking precautions against John or Missus Hudson running into him with the incriminating item in his mouth, Daddy rationalised for him, "Let's leave your nippy-nip in here so it doesn't fall in the toilet or anything, yeah?"

Showing only minor disappointment, Sherlock took it out and set it carefully on a low shelf in his bookcase.

"Good boy," Pretend-John praised him before walking out to the hall. Sherlock got up onto his knees to open the door and follow.

There was no one within sight of the hall, so Sherlock crawled on hands and knees to the bathroom.

In Sherlock's mind's eye, there were hints of interaction like Daddy lifting the seat lid for him and guiding him onto the toilet with firm, strong hands lifting beneath Sherlock's armpits. Sherlock sat and tucked himself back rather than standing and facing the bowl. Daddy stood by patiently while Sherlock did what he needed to.

"Good boy," Sherlock was thrilled to almost-hear when he was done and Daddy reached over to flush the potty for him.

Sherlock gave a happy, if not clumsy, open-fingered clap before Daddy took his wrists and guided him to the sink to wash his hands. Sherlock imagined that John's hands scrubbed on either side of his own, helping him to wash and teaching him how at the same time.

"I'm so proud of you, that you went like a big boy," Daddy said, "but you're really little today, aren't you? If no one's around, maybe we'll get you into a diaper, hm? I know that helps my little boy relax."

Sherlock nodded shyly to the spot just to the side of his solo reflection in the mirror. He enjoyed how much easier unwinding into being totally little was when he donned the assorted infantile paraphernalia he owned, but he rarely felt safe enough in the flat to do so with the risk of discovery ever looming in his mind. The twenty-pack of diapers he ordered last year was mostly unused for this reason, and also to make his stash last.

He snorted at the word 'stash'. Sometimes, he got a kick imagining the look on Lestrade's face if he perhaps told him one day that he'd dropped the cocaine for diapers.

Hm. Stash sounded like splash. Sherlock sort of had the urge to splash, what with the faucet running, but he wasn't in the mood for a bath despite needing one. He pulled up the drain stop between the hot and cold knobs and let the sink fill, then turned off the tap and, grinning, swatted at the water with his open palms. He giggled softly, once, and continued to play with the water until he heard John's voice at his ear.

"Sherlock, um... are you... alright?"

The really real John, mug of tea in hand, worried lines crossing his forehead, had said it. 

Sherlock's eyes went wide for an instant in the mirror as it sank in that he had been caught bent over the bathroom counter in his underwear, slapping gleefully at a sinkful of water with all the poise of an awkward tot in an inflatable kiddie pool, like it was the greatest thing in the world.

Blanking his expression as well as he could, Sherlock pressed the stop open to drain the sink and straightened to his full height, arms at his sides.

He cleared his throat and said, stony as ever, "I'm fine, thank you."

After wiping off his hands he turned and stared anxiously out the door, past John's elbow, until John, who hovered as though he possibly wanted to discuss what he had seen, took the hint and stepped aside to let Sherlock pass. He swept past the bewildered doctor and returned to his room, where he figured he had best hole up for the remainder of the day and hope against hope that John would forget what he saw by the time Sherlock came out.

Pretend-John dissolved in the wake of the incident, Sherlock's senses on high alert leaving him unable to relax into that quiet spot in his mind where Daddy came to him.

The shock of John catching him like that was still too near. Sherlock had not slipped up like this in front of him before, not to this extent, so blatantly that John couldn't quite write it off as just another Sherlockian eccentricity. Maybe, Sherlock prayed, he still would. Sherlock had done stranger things, after all. From mixing his mashed potatoes into his salad at Christmas dinner to screwing benching weights into a corner of the sitting room ceiling to see if it would hold, John was used to a certain degree of weirdness. 

He locked the door and sank down to the carpet. He found his nippie on the bookshelf, popped it in, and sucked on it thoughtfully. The best course of action seemed to be to wait until John went to bed that night, then sneak out for a bubble bath and playtime with his tub toys, and then he could settle in for the night all clean in a fresh, dry diaper and one of his legless onesies. As long as John didn't try to pester him into coming out for dinner, said plan would go off without a hitch, and if he woke up 'big' tomorrow he could face John pretending nothing happened today like it had.

Sherlock's eyes were still red rimmed and achey despite his nap, a backup of tears unable to drain away while his eyes were shut. He scooted next to the bed, rested his shoulders on the side, and rested his eyes while he tried to calm down and not think about guessing what John was thinking.

He tried too to ignore the frequently nagging thought that it was unwise and unhealthy to keep imagining John as his caretaker. He ignored it because he knew all too well that if Daddy-John was what he conjured up when he was little, it was because that was what he needed, deep down, to see.

It was dangerous, he did have to admit. Using the idea of John to help himself feel comfortable during regression was bound to make him more likely to slip unintentionally in John's presence. It was an inevitability Sherlock struggled to come to terms with from the beginning. Today, however, was a simple mishap. He didn't know John was still at home, or wasn't still tucked upstairs engrossed in a novel.

Feeling drained all over again for having to contend with his own second guesses and worries, especially after being wrenched out of his little headspace, Sherlock dragged himself back into bed and had himself another long nap. It wasn't like he wouldn't be doing the same thing out on the couch from sheer boredom if he was out in the living room right now, anyway. And he deserved the rest after the long string of cases that ended just the past weekend, he reminded himself. It was no wonder his little side was poking to the surface so insistently after being ignored for so long. His last proper little day was months ago.

He set his pacifier safely on the nightstand and dozed in the dim room for a few hours, until a soft but persistent knock on his door woke him. The room was darker by then, the only light spilling around the curtain being from a streetlamp. He still felt little, as he expected he might. He struggled out of headspace as far as he could manage in case the offending knocker had it in their head to attempt conversation.

"Sherlock?" John called through the door, "Are you up?"

Sherlock bit back a groan as he sat up on his elbows. A sinus headache was imminent.

"Yes," he answered groggily.

John's voice grew a little warmer, more placating than insistent, "It's dinner time, Sherlock. Are you coming out? You've been hiding out in there all day."

"I'm not that hungry. And I have food in here," Sherlock said. He really wasn't hungry at all. Just wickedly thirsty, dehydrated from all his crying.

He heard John shift his weight, could nearly hear him frowning. "Are you sure? I didn't see you come out and get anything."

"I have biscuits." It was the truth. There was a package of teething biscuits in his box of baby things.

John sighed that familiar, frustrated sigh of his. "Sherlock, biscuits aren't dinner. Missus Hudson was out today and brought us back a carton of that squash soup she says you like. There's some honey ham, too. Come on out."

Sherlock chewed his lip and considered leaving the safety of his room long enough to grab a bowl of soup. He could take it back to his room and eat the orange mush as though it was puréed baby food. 

"Why?" he challenged John to stall for more time to make his decision.

"'Why?'" John echoed. "Well, because I'd like some company at dinner. And because I'm pretty sure you haven't eaten anything since I saw you nibbling on a waffle two days ago."

John refrained from mentioning that it hadn't even been the entire waffle. The last quarter Sherlock threw out their living room window, the descending flurry of greedy pigeons having been what reminded Sherlock of a comment heard years ago regarding rice and birds and curious explosions.

Sherlock was quiet, trying to devise an excuse that would get him back out of the kitchen without any fuss from John. The last thing he needed was for John to watch him fumbling with the spoon like a two -year-old, never mind wearing his big yellow bib to catch the drips that sometimes happened when he ate regressed.

"Are you alright in there?" John asked.

Bollocks. There was that tone he used earlier in the bathroom, the one that Sherlock suspected meant John had more questions he wanted to ask but wasn't sure yet about broaching the subject.

"I'll be out in a few minutes," Sherlock promised, hoping his compliance was enough to deter John's focus.

"... Right, I'll warm up the soup," John told him cheerily before padding away to the kitchen. His cheer sounded partly manufactured, like something was on his mind and he was trying not to let on to Sherlock.

It was within the realm of possibility that Sherlock was simply imagining it, but it sounded an awful lot like John was dwelling on their run-in just as much as Sherlock was.

Sherlock sighed and dragged on his dressing gown, then picked his way through the shadows to the door.

He stopped there for a moment and wondered if he shouldn't brush his hair first, splash some water on his face. 

He told himself that no, he had best not. It would serve his case for retreat better the more pathetic he looked. John would be more amenable to letting him slink away to take dinner in bed if Sherlock appeared as worn out as he felt.

He trudged to the kitchen, sleepy fingers clumsily tying the gown around his waist as he went. He grimaced and squinted under the harsh electric light filling the kitchen, finding his way to one of the chairs at the small, tacky fold-up table that illustrated their bachelor existence so well.

Missus Hudson had obviously not mentioned to John that the squash soup Sherlock enjoyed was the homemade sort. Sherlock recoiled just a bit from the heavily seasoned steam rising in front of him from the dish.

The paper takeaway bag rustled as John dragged the bottom.

"They gave us a couple things of salt crackers. You want some, Sherlock?"

"Yes, please."

John enacted a faux double-take and marvelled aloud, "Huh! A 'please' and a 'thank-you' both in one day? I must be doing _something_ right."

He stared at Sherlock pointedly and added, "... Or, you must really not be feeling yourself."

Sherlock met his eyes quickly, on edge under the scrutiny.

John relented, tossing the plastic packet beside Sherlock's bowl and sitting across from him. He gestured with his own soupspoon and said simply, "Go ahead while it's still hot."

Feeling dazed, Sherlock ripped open the chilly, damp cracker pack, fresh from the fridge, and crumbled the stale saltines into his soup.

He felt John watching over the rim of his teacup.

Sherlock tucked the clean spoon in his fingers alongside the rim of the bowl, preparing to stand and leave with it. He hesitated, part of him wanting to stay and sit with John.

"Can I eat in my room?"

Sherlock winced hard. He meant for it to come out, _'I'm going to go eat in my room'_. He opened his eyes slowly, the beginnings of a headache throbbing behind his brow.

John looked taken aback too, used to Sherlock doing exactly as he pleased without bothering to ask permission. Neither was he used to Sherlock so plainly suffering unless the man was dramatically milking some small pain for pity. But Sherlock was too worn out not to let it show.

The doctor quickly masked his surprise and said carefully, "Not unless you promise to let me in there with the vacuum cleaner tomorrow. Missus Hudson would be horrified by how long you've let it go." The ending punctuation was his cup being set on the table.

"No," Sherlock grumped, gazing into his soup. "You couldn't get it in there, anyway. I still need to sort my papers."

John gave him a look and shook his head. "Let's just stay out here and have a nice meal together, hm?" he implored gently.

Sherlock tried to think of something to say that would get him back on track, on the path to stealing away to the back room with his spoils, but his brain was on the fritz after running itself in circles over unresolved worries. With a defeated huff he flipped the spoon between his first two fingers and his thumb, holding it properly despite his inclination to do otherwise, and dipped it into the invitingly warm orangey slop. His little mentality was humming just below the surface of his consciousness, craving John's praise, wanting to please Daddy. Sherlock was too fatigued to fight it.

They ate in silence until, about halfway through the meal, John tried tentatively, "Do you think you'll eat something tomorrow, Sherlock? Now that the case is over?"

"Mm," Sherlock grunted noncommittally with a shrug, hunched just enough to be noticeable, sipping his dinner.

"Promise?" John prodded, hoping to tweak Sherlock's lack of protest into a yes.

Sherlock paused, a fresh spoonful hovering over the mealy pond of purée.

"Fine," he mumbled. He slurped from his spoon, not caring of the rude noise he made.

John's face relaxed at that. "Good," he answered. "You need it."

The quiet compliance was uncharacteristic of Sherlock, but John was thankful for the acquiescence regardless of the manner in which it came forth.

Sherlock kicked his feet a bit under the table, his littleness going warm and fuzzy at John's concern over him. 

He allowed himself the fleeting notion that he was having dinner with his Daddy, or at least with his very nice Uncle John who cared for him very much.

He was infinitely grateful that John didn't attempt for any more intelligent conversation from him while they ate; Sherlock might not have managed it. His mind flitted in a tension between being adult and little, with the little half gradually gaining more ground as his headache waned.

He wished John was his Daddy.


	3. Chapter 3

Later that night, after John was undoubtedly asleep, Sherlock snuck to the bathroom with his arms full of illicit frivolities: a jumbo yellow rubber duckie, a blue and white toy boat with a rigid plastic sail, special natural-ingredients-only chamomile-lavender bubble bath, a bath pillow, calming herbal-scented body oil, and a colourful Winnie the Pooh washcloth.

He flipped on the vent fan, closed and locked the door, and filled the tub, adding some Epsom salts from the cabinet to the bubbly froth. 

After the tub was full and the tap shut off, John's imaginary hand twisted the faucets as if Sherlock hadn't already done it himself.

Sherlock's eyes brightened and he bounced on the balls of his bare feet. He was so relieved to see Daddy, so glad he was able to conjure him back after getting too wound up earlier.

"The bath's all ready, Sherlock," said Daddy gently with a smile. "Come here and let Daddy undress you!"

Sherlock's robe and underwear were quickly a wrinkled pile on the floor. Pretend-John raised a condescending eyebrow at his little one, though, which stopped Sherlock from stepping into the tub.

Sherlock poked a finger to his lips, not quite putting it inside, fretting that maybe Daddy was cross with him.

"Oh," Sherlock breathed when he realised what it meant. He bent down, picked up his dressing gown, and went on tiptoes to hang it onto the hook on the back of the door so it would stay relatively clean and he could wear it again after his bath.

"Good boy," Daddy cooed, beaming. He held out a hand and helped Sherlock into the tub.

Sherlock pretended that Daddy stepped out for a bit to give him time to play. He splashed, reservedly since he was anxious not to be heard and discovered, and batted playfully at the smiling, bobbing duck. Next, an important marine expedition on the sailboat was cut short by a gargantuan yellow seabird, long thought extinct, emerging from the thick fog and cutting across the insignificant boat's prow, upsetting everything aboard. The crew panicked and abandoned ship, and the vessel went to the bottom with all its high-tech, state-of-the-art scientific gear. All with hushed sound effects.

Sherlock held the plastic boat down, then let go and exclaimed as it popped back out of the water. He did it a few more times, trying to see how far in the air it could propel itself. It flew all the way to his feet at the end of the tub, the landing sending tufts of bubbles upward. Sherlock gasped and grinned, and blew at them as they floated back down. He slapped at the mounds of bubbles around him, delighting in their light and airy squishiness.

Pretend-John leaned in the doorway and smiled adoringly, watching his boy having fun. 

Fighting back a tear that threatened to spill, Sherlock looked up at his Daddy who wasn't there, smiled back, and bounced on his bum in the water, reaching for Daddy to let him know he was ready to be washed.

Sherlock pretended it was John who rubbed the washcloth over his skin, who massaged the shampoo into his hair. It became easier as Daddy started murmuring to him about getting ready for bed and how sleepy Sherlock must have been after such a rough day. Daddy's little baby was going to be nice and dry in a few minutes, and then Daddy could help him into a diaper.

"Oh, _comme agréable_!" John whispered to him as he dried Sherlock with a big, fluffy towel and followed it with the moisturising oil. _Oh, how nice!_

It was something Mummy used to say when her children were especially small, sometimes in a cooing half-squeal to get them to smile. Sherlock much preferred to hear John say it, even though Sherlock wasn't sure how good Real-John's French was.

Sherlock grunted and sleepily brushed the back of his hand over his face. Daddy knew he was resisting the urge to suck.

"Come on," Pretend-John said. "Let's get you to bed and you can have your nippie."

Sherlock barely remembered to gather up his bath things. In his room, he set everything on a clean hand towel to dry and slung the wrung-out washcloth over the radiator.

A diaper and his bedtime outfit were already laid out on the bed. Sherlock lied on his back with his bottom in the diaper, and he 'watched' Daddy snug it around him and tape it up. Sherlock sat up to adjust it. His onesie went on, the crotch snapped securely over his diaper, and Daddy insisted Sherlock's booties went on as well. The booties were simply pastel ankle-length socks that matched the little blue sheep and clouds on Sherlock's patterned white onesie.

"Mmmmm. Da-da," Sherlock garbled happily, feeling particularly small. 

He took his pacifier and wiggled under the blankets. He snuggled up to Hippie, a well-worn terrycloth bunny that was as old as he was (and so named because, being a bunny, he hippy-hopped). Now that he was full grown, Hippie was only a tiny bit bigger than his hand. He held it to his chest and focussed on trying to relax. When he was ready to turn onto his stomach and sleep, he would set his nippy-nip and the fragile stuffed bunny on the nightstand.

Sherlock pretended that Daddy said goodnight to him, kissed him, and tucked him in, and that this same incarnation of John Watson crept upstairs and was the one sleeping in the single bed in the attic bedroom.

"Mm-mmm."

Sherlock suckled and did not let himself dwell on the fact it was all make-believe. Daddy understood it was necessary. Daddy didn't mind.

Sherlock was so grateful to have Daddy, such as he was.

* * *

Sherlock let John think he had woken late the next morning. How Sherlock really spent his morning was a secret.

He woke up feeling regressed enough that he started to play with his wooden block set and a few other toys from the collection hidden in his closet soon after he rolled out of bed, losing himself for hours in the relaxingly simple activities. Close to noon, he finished with reading a few children's books, which helped coax his mental age back up enough that he could handle changing into his normal clothes and acting more or less like an adult for the rest of the day.

Nevertheless, his mood did not improve much from his last aging-up to this one. He wanted to stay little. Being grown up made him tired and cranky lately, no matter how tranquil his regressive episodes in-between were.

John managed to herd Sherlock to the kitchen for lunch to make good on his promise the evening before, which Sherlock deeply regretted.

It seemed the success of the soup last night was so encouraging that John and Missus Hudson deliberately put it on the menu again today. Only, today it was far less acceptable. It was watery, sickly-sweet mulligatawny, and Sherlock wasn't at all in the mood to force it down. Somehow, the offence made something click in Sherlock's already worn-down subconscious, and he acted out without exactly meaning to.

To his credit, he at least sat down with John and had a taste before he started to give the doctor trouble.

"Uck," Sherlock made a deliberate near-choking sound and drew a slimy, half-chewed inch of celery out of his mouth. He dropped it with a show of utmost distaste directly on the kitchen table, not bothering to use his sandwich plate.

"Don't like the celery, huh," John commented dryly. He got a dirty scowl in answer.

Sherlock stirred half-heartedly at his bowl of soup, the mediocre result of two hours of toil on Mrs. Hudson's part. There were far too many celery pieces in it. And he didn't want to so much as touch the apple bits floating amongst them.

John, encouraged that Sherlock at least hasn't dumped it out in the sink already, sipped at his own and tried to coax him, "You can pick it out, that's fine."

Except it wasn't all that fine, Sherlock thought, because that was just too much work to fix what was wrong with something he didn't want to eat in the first place.

John saw Sherlock consider it before the fussy beanpole huffed disgustedly, shoved the chair backward with a rude scrape that was sure to scuff the floor, and started to head for the sofa.

"We agreed you would eat today," John reminded him sternly.

"And I did."

A _tsk_. "You had two bites. That doesn't count."

John sounded frighteningly like Sherlock's mother when he said that. It made Sherlock stop in his tracks for a moment, legs locked and gut churning with a short-lived surge of fear as his body ached with the muscle-memory of being sent to bed so often in pain with an overfull stomach, not having been allowed to leave the dinner table until his plate was mostly clean lest Mummy impose punishment involving retraction of his few childhood freedoms. 

But John wasn't Mummy, and Sherlock found such ridiculous relief in being able to walk away.

John was left to hold his chin in his hand and drum his fingers on the table and wonder why the hell he even bothered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Right now this is where the continuous part ends, though I have twice as much written down for later on in the story. I shall be writing the connecting scenes and will hopefully have more to post soon! Let me know what you think of this so far!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I may have misused the word emulgent, but haven't found a better synonym. Meh.
> 
> The narrative on this chapter is a mix of what was written last year and what I filled in just last night to make it postable, so there may be some pacing discrepancies since I haven't gone over and reread it. The next update may take me a bit longer because I now have to fill in at least one entire chapter from scratch to connect this to the next scene I have down.

John worked for the next four days in a row. 

Sherlock was a bit bolder with his little time each day. On Friday, he was out in the living room in a footed sleeper and watching a videotape of old animated fairytales. On an unprecedented sort of self-pitying holiday, he ignored his experiments and essays entirely and left the periodicals untouched all week. 

Bolder though he may have been, he took no unnecessary risks. An hour before John was due home, Sherlock shut himself back in the bedroom, leaving nary a trace of his activities elsewhere. His bottle was washed and drying in his bedroom, same as his nippie. His toys were all cleaned up, the television was off, and the crumbs from his teething biscuits were shaken out of the couch cushions and swept up.

He was sat on his bedroom carpet, engrossed with a colouring book, when the door to the flat opened and John's distinctive footfalls wafted to his ears. He stilled, listening to the reassuring, familiar sounds of John settling in. 

Subtle, slick squeaking. Thump of boots after removal. Still wet outdoors; dropped on coir mat to dry. 

Exaggerated sigh. Long day.

Fridge open briefly, telly turned on. No paper or plastic rustling. No groceries or takeaway picked up on the way home.

Volume quickly raised on telly.

So it appeared Sherlock did forget to amend a detail or two when he cleaned up after himself. John, like most people, tended to keep the TV much louder than Sherlock found comfortable. Sherlock watched telly so rarely that changing the volume back and forth never became much of an issue between them. But that meant John would notice for certain that Sherlock used the TV today.

He bent over his book again and finished colouring in the bees floating above Pooh Bear's head, pressing the crayon a little more firmly than before.

Roughly an hour later, Sherlock was on his back atop a small blanket on the floor, chewing lazily at a plastic ring of teething beads. With John nearby and nothing distracting taking place outside the monotonous drone of the telly, which was too garbled at this distance to be intelligible, Sherlock gradually slid deeper and deeper into headspace until he was the 'youngest' he felt all week. 

It was ages since this last happened. Sherlock was so calm. His _mind_ was so calm. 

It was a state akin to meditation, but exponentially more effortless. Sherlock was completely regressed; this was the closest he ever was to a genuinely infant-like state. He was content to lie there and gnaw on a toy. His need for oral stimulation was met. The starburst whorls in the ceiling paint were a fascinating alien world that he could stare at forever. He had no desire to move; roll over, sit up, crawl around. He was at peace right where he was.

A dumb grin spread on Sherlock's face at the thought of Daddy being home with him. Even from a different room, Sherlock felt John's relaxed presence like a warm blanket. He could picture John seated at one end of the sofa, elbow on the armrest and leaning the side of his head on the palm of his fist while he watched telly, and wearing that bare hint of a smile that sometimes crept up on him when he got really into it.

Sherlock's entire body utterly lax and languid, he automatically took a particularly deep, slow inhale and exhale that refreshed him to his core. Like a newborn preparing for sleep. 

The stillness in his head was perfection. If only it was as consistently easy to get here as it was to reach a morphine high.

He let his eyelids fall. In the white noise of the telly, Sherlock fancied the wispy strains of a lullaby danced around. His left arm, the last muscle group he kept engaged, finally went slack too. The teething ring fell from his mouth and slipped down his cheek, followed quietly by a thin, shining track of drool. Sherlock closed his mouth and hummed happily.

He drifted in this simplest state of being, knowing Daddy was near and everything was right with the world. Time did not matter. He stopped sensing it. He lay sprawled there for aeons.

Sherlock was jarred from something that wasn't definitively sleep by a hard, cracking knock at his door. The noise pierced his eardrums in a way he thought he learned not to let it. 

It startled him intensely, the adrenaline instantly making his heart race and his limbs jerk out. His eyes flew open. There was only a crackled white plaster expanse before him. Hard contact between the floor and his elbows at least told him which way was down and ceased the sensation that he was falling. The pain itself was what brought him to.

Awake now, he tried to control his breathing. He felt like he needed to cry. The loud intrusion into his psyche was inexplicably unfair and cruel, and he just _needed_ to cry it out.

The tears were already flowing well before he realised it. Sherlock quickly stuffed part of his fist in his mouth to remind himself not to sob aloud. It wasn't enough, and he swapped it for gnawing on his forearm.

He bit and sucked, and repeated, and rode the fizzing little wave of endorphins.

A second knock at the door felt marginally quieter, even though Sherlock knew it probably wasn't.

John's voice washed over him, and it took Sherlock a long moment to process before the words reached his brain in their proper form. 

"Sherlock? How are you feeling?"

Sherlock swallowed around the lump in his throat, willing it to go down. 

"Fine," Sherlock answered in what he tried to make a monotone.

It must not have worked, because the back of Sherlock's scalp prickled and it felt as though an echo of his anxiety reflected back to him off of John. 

Were Sherlock in full possession of his adult faculties, he would have slapped himself for thinking something so silly. He would have told himself it was an after effect of the adrenaline and the endorphins catalysing in his system. That sounded more rational.

John pressed closer to the door to be heard. "D'you think you might be up to going out tonight? We could hit a pub or two, or whatever you'd like."

Oh, John. Trying to get him out of the house, then. Fearing for Sherlock's sanity being so cut off from the imbecilic socialites who made the world go 'round.

Sherlock cut to the chase, groaning from the floor, "It's only been a week, John! Can't a man stay where there's peace and quiet?"

 _But you're not a man,_ Sherlock thought to himself without knowing why he went out of his way with his internal dialogue just to torture himself, _you're just a whiny little baby who should suck it up and go where Daddy wants to take him._

If Sherlock weren't so angry at himself for thinking it, and angry at himself for being right, and angry with himself for being wrong at the same time, he might have started crying again.

"Don't you _want_ to go out?" John said, puzzled, "It looks to me like you've been bored all week."

Sherlock passed a wry, lopsided smile. The doctor had noticed the lack of disorder and mayhem in the flat after all. 

"No," Sherlock answered, making certain it sounded final.

After a wait, John conceded, "Alright, fine. We don't have to go anywhere tonight."

Sherlock sighed in relief. Suddenly itching for something to do with his hands, he sat up and tugged the colouring book closer. The teething ring, attached to a pacifier clip on his onesie, flopped off his shoulder and dangled on his chest.

Crayoning briskly and methodically, Sherlock felt his mind clicking into gear and meeting the same resistance as it had all week. He wholeheartedly wanted to go back to being a baby right that instant, so his 'aging up' only topped out at maybe a seven-year-old level for now.

John piped up again. This time, Sherlock saw the question coming.

"Did you eat anything today?"

"I had biscuits," Sherlock said guardedly. He frowned at a squiggle of orange that marred the margin outside the neat lines on Tigger's tail. He wondered, not for the first time, why crayons didn't come with erasers. He had a set of markers years ago that worked with a special eraser. Surely there was a satisfactory emulgent for wax that was solid at room temperature and active on contact... Melamine foam wouldn't work, it would wreck the paper. And scrubbing over with the white crayon never worked.

With a long-suffering sigh, John groaned, "Sherlock, what did I tell you about biscuits? Have you had anything else today?"

Sherlock chewed his lip and worried his fingers around each other, thinking back to remember what he ingested. "I had water."

"Thank goodness for that," John muttered. Thanks to Sherlock, he knew firsthand what forty-eight hours of total dehydration looked like. Seeing it was just as scary as any written medical description. "Anything else?"

"... No," Sherlock said in a small voice.

"If I get Chinese takeaway, will you eat it?"

Sherlock's face darkened. He wasn't hungry and didn't want to eat. But he wasn't full, either. Yesterday and the day before had been no-food days, so eating today to appease John wouldn't be such a horrible thing.

"Okay," Sherlock finally said, letting John know in that one word that he still wasn't thrilled about it.

"Sweet and sour chicken?"

"Yes, please." Sherlock rolled his eyes at himself after he said it. He was unnecessarily polite in his little headspace. Why bother to say 'please' when he didn't want to eat at all? 

Because he wanted to make John happy. Daddy. John. Not Daddy. Not yet? Sherlock's head started to ache.

John left the flat. Sherlock finished colouring the page and reluctantly changed out of his onesie and diaper. He dragged on clean underwear, gray flannel bottoms, and his dressing gown.

Without John there to give him further direction, Sherlock stood in the middle of the room sucking on his thumb and glancing about aimlessly while he waited for him to come home. He resisted the toys calling to him from the floor. He needed to be as grown-up as possible when John returned.

The thumb in his mouth probably wasn't helping. He pulled it out and considered it, then unlocked his door, closing it again behind him, and slipped into the bathroom to wash his hands.

He was stuck in the same hazy, not-completely-little-nor-completely-big place that he was on Monday. He wanted to please John and to secretly pretend Real-John was Daddy, but knew he couldn't give himself away in the meantime.

The compromise, apparently, was to let his little side poke through just enough, on purpose (or so he made himself believe), to make the evening interesting. Enough that the influence on Sherlock's actions might be such to confuse John and make him take notice that something was most definitely off. It would be the 'little' version of the thrillingly dangerous adventures 'big' Sherlock enjoyed.

Yes, Little Sherlock was easily amused. Mind games with John were so last year. 

Except, in his defence, 'little' mind games were completely new. 

He plopped himself down on the kitchen linoleum near the entry door that led to the landing at the top of the seventeen steps and waited patiently for Daddy to bring dinner, fingering the red nippie he tucked in his dressing gown pocket for comfort. He still thought biscuits made a fine meal. But he supposed they did lack protein. He grudgingly made peace with Daddy bringing him chicken, so long as there was plenty of sauce to cover it. 

The front door opening and John's footsteps on the stair made Sherlock sit up eagerly. Daddy was home! Sort of.

John looked very surprised to find Sherlock waiting at the door for him, and even more surprised that Sherlock was sitting on the floor, pressed nearly into the 'shoe corner' behind the door. 

"Hi, Sherlock," John greeted him, bemusement audible.

"Hi," Sherlock echoed flatly.

After a brief, befuddled stare down while he removed his boots and coat, John crossed the kitchen and set up dinner with an occasional wary glance back at Sherlock, who waited patiently on the floor.

"Ready," John called over his shoulder when he had everything out on the table.

Sherlock hesitated. He couldn't decide if crawling to his seat would be overkill at this point. It was what he wanted, though. And then he wanted John to notice how he couldn't stand on his own, and to lift Sherlock into the chair and maybe even find a strap with a buckle to make sure he didn't fall out. It would be very nice to have his own highchair. Perhaps it could be built using a barstool, to give some extra lift for his long legs...

John turned around and watched Sherlock's gaze go distant. He bent over to peer at Sherlock's face and tried to get his attention with his hand.

Finally, the doctor gave one loud clap and said with a little extra volume, "Come to the table and eat, Sherlock."

Sherlock jumped when he was snapped out of his thoughts. John, satisfied, took his own seat. Sherlock shifted to hands and knees, paused, and stood. He joined John without another word. They ate in silence, John graciously recognising that Sherlock needed time to pull his thoughts together.

 

John gathered up the dishes when they finished and set about rinsing them in the sink. Sherlock sat back and wrapped his dressing gown tighter, listening half to the rush of the faucet and half to the imaginary buzz of his thinking colliding with John's someplace in the empty air between them.

"Was there anything good on the telly today?" John asked over the noise.

"I don't know," Sherlock mumbled. He half-lied, "I didn't watch anything, just checked to see what was on an old video."

"Ah." Thankfully, John didn't press to find out what the contents of the tape were. "Do you want to watch some with me tonight, then?"

"No," Sherlock said sourly. John knew full well he didn't like TV.

Not reacting to Sherlock's tone, John enticed, "There are supposed to be a few documentaries on, and none of them overlapping, so you can see them each in full. I think the first one starts in about ten minutes."

When Sherlock didn't reply, he added, "If they're ones you've already seen, then by all means you can go back to your room. D'you want to just watch the first five minutes and see if you're interested?"

"... Fine." 

Sherlock rose and caught a glimpse of John's barely-there smile before he headed to the couch to wait for him.

He listened to John finish washing up, feeling a twinge of guilt for leaving John to do the work. Leaving dirty dishes was yet another reason Sherlock disliked eating. If John was ever his Daddy, there would be bottles and pacifiers and soft-tipped spoons to wash... possibly on an almost daily basis, depending on how often John fed him. Even if Sherlock insisted on only having water on some days, that would be taken from a bottle, and by the end of the day even that would need to be cleaned.

Despairing, Sherlock reflected yet again on how impossibly unfair it would be to ask John to accept all the tasks involved in caring for a full-grown infant. Surely John wouldn't want to brush Sherlock's teeth or change his diapers, either. No bathing, no dressing him, no reminding him when it was time to clean up his toys or putting him to bed. Certainly no weathering Sherlock's unsightly crying fits with cuddles and soft reassurances for the future. He would be nothing but a burden on John. 

Like he wasn't already.

Sherlock was a smidge grumpier by the time John joined him on the sofa.

John took note of it and tactfully went straight for the remote control, letting the box fill the awkward void.

The first programme was a rerun, but Sherlock hunkered down on his end of the couch and watched it. 

He felt John's eyes on him occasionally. It was rare for Sherlock to keep his comments to himself, particularly during crime documentaries. John was certainly surprised not to hear so much as a huff nor a tut at the screen the entire time.

The second documentary was a bit more awkward to sit through. The topic was pro-ana, or pro-anorexia websites, and Sherlock had a fair idea of what was going through John's head the couple times he peered at Sherlock sidelong. When John went to the toilet halfway through, Sherlock slid off the couch and made himself comfortable on the floor, using the sofa as a backrest, so it would be easier to ignore John when he returned.

When John came back, he skipped the 'why the hell are you down there' and simply asked, "Don't you want to sit on the couch? It's more comfortable."

"I'm fine," Sherlock lied.

They settled back and watched. Again Sherlock kept his scathing comments to himself, though he had plenty of them.

Despite the tension, Sherlock's flight response didn't kick in until that documentary ended and the voiceover on the rolling credits announced the final documentary of the night would be what sounded an awful lot to Sherlock like something to do with either infantilism similar to his or the worst real parenting imaginable. The latter possibility sounded far too tabloid, leaving the former as more likely, however unlikely overall. 

Sherlock squirmed a tiny bit, but held his ground. He almost wished he stayed up on the couch so he could try to catch John's reactions. He didn't want to move back up now and draw attention to himself.

Sherlock winced inside as the programme came on and a new voiceover read the title onscreen.

_"Fifteen-Stone Babies..."_

This might yet be the longest forty-five minutes of Sherlock's life.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the Big Unavoidable Super-Awkward Chapter Of Revelation, and in the process of writing I was rather "gahhhh, I just want to get this overwith and reach the real h/c and fluff..." So my initial plan to have the entire reveal!discussion take place rationally and all within the TV night scene went right out the window as I powered through it and my inner Sherlock muse wound up reacting as you're about to read. Basically, my original plan was so drawn-out and suspenseful even I couldn't take it. So you guys were spared. A bit. Unfortunately, the written version is angstier than the suspenseful one I had in my head.
> 
> Come to think of it, this ended up drawing substantially on the headspace I was in for an earlier story, "The Great Pretender" (Kiss Kiss Bang Bang fandom), which I'll also post to AO3 shortly because in a way it's very much related to this story.
> 
> Like last time, I apologise if the narrative isn't up to par with the first three chapters. This entire chapter was hammered out in one solid blast session (just last night) and only edited briefly. I shall blame any and all typos on the booze, for it was involved.

Of all the sodding nights to watch telly. Of all the sodding things that could have possibly been on. Of all the ridiculously ironic things they could have watched tonight, it had to be this.

None of the interviewees on the telly shared Sherlock's demographic precisely, for which he was perversely grateful. It slimmed the likelihood of John connecting him to the practises depicted. 

He remained mildly terrified of the idea of John knowing about him, despite wanting so badly and for so long to tell him. Otherwise, the prospect of seeing something in the programme that could help John make that mental leap should have been zealously welcomed. 

Sherlock itched to peek back at John. His body buzzed so heavily with the intent that it was distracting. 

Still Sherlock did not let himself look, denying himself a barometer for John's thoughts as the both of them listened to strangers discuss the very thoughts and acts that Sherlock hid from John on a day to day basis.

He was half afraid of turning and finding John staring straight back at him, a bit like he'd thrown the occasional glances at Sherlock during the anorexia film. 

Tonight certainly did not help Sherlock's aversion to television any.

Focussing his breath in a calming pattern, Sherlock reminded himself that if John had any prior inkling Sherlock was an adult baby, Sherlock would have cottoned on to him by now. Thus far, John was only concerned that Sherlock was secluding himself a touch more than usual. Everything else this week was business as normal, only with a healthier degree of sympathy from John. 

Sherlock frowned as it struck him that John was indeed gentler with him recently. He hadn't yelled more than once in the past week, and his sarcasm was at an all-time low. He'd been particularly patient with Sherlock, the birdseed incident aside - but even then John took the route of least resistance. Ordinarily the argument would have gone on until Sherlock huffed off in a snit, not John, which meant, seeing as how Sherlock could hold out an awfully long time before huffing off, John knew he was doing both of them a favour by cracking first. Ergo, despite the inconvenience, John felt generous that day.

One of two possibilities: either John was enjoying less stress as a direct result of reduced contact with him and the product was markedly improved mood, or John perceived that the unforgiving barrage of work over the last few months left Sherlock in a bad way and John was instinctually mother-henning him in whatever small ways were available at home.

What if it was both? 

Too confusing. Dismissed.

The probabilities were too balanced. Enjoying his solitude, or mother-henning? Even his motivation for inviting Sherlock to watch telly could have pointed either way. Either John thought it would cheer Sherlock up (despite past failures, the dear doctor still tried), or John's social nature simply had him in the mood for companionship after watching telly alone every other night.

Sherlock hated inconclusive data. 

He returned his attention to the TV set before his inability to deduce John drove him bonkers.

Most of the people the programme featured were fortunate enough to have significant others who openly embraced or accepted their lifestyle, or lived alone, and Sherlock covetously took in the details of their play spaces brimming with unabashed whimsy. Custom furniture, bright wallpaper, toys, and overtly 'little' decorations. Not for the first time, Sherlock pictured his bedroom transformed into his ideal nursery. 

He shook himself out of it after John waltzed into his imaginary version of the room, beaming at him where he sat in the crib and reaching over the rail to hug him.

Once again, the harsh reality outside his head made Sherlock cry. He was able to staunch it, but not before a few fat tears rolled down each cheek and collected under his chin. He was grateful all over again that he and John couldn't see each other's faces.

Though Sherlock was able to keep himself from crying too much more, he felt a wreck by the time the programme drew to a close. His eyelids were puffed some because he held back, and the familiar soreness resided in his throat. All of the physical aches of suppressed sorrow were upon him as a man onscreen spoke of how the reprieve of childhood was only an illusion, but a very welcome one all the same.

Sherlock was appalled how much of his willpower it took not to bawl outright in front of John.

Then the credits rolled and the late news was announced to follow.

Moving with cautious deliberation and keeping his head down, Sherlock eased himself backward up onto the sofa. 

John muted the TV and asked, "You going to bed, then?"

That, specifically, was mother-henning. If keeping quiet through three hours of documentary wasn't tough, John knew the amount of sheer propaganda in the news reports would be enough to rile Sherlock to the point of sleeplessness.

It was, almost, a bit like Daddy signalling to Sherlock that he was about to send him to bed for his own good.

Sherlock met John's gaze and watched the light from the screen flicker in multicolour across his face.

He watched John's expression change; John definitely noticed Sherlock looked more unwell than he did an hour ago.

 _It had to be now_.

Sherlock's tongue felt swollen and clumsy. Fighting against it, and against the sickening way his nerves vibrated, he ignored John's question and quietly asked him, with a nod at the telly to elaborate, "What did you think?"

John's eyes followed the direction of Sherlock's nod for an instant, then settled back on Sherlock with an inscrutable cast to them.

"... That last show, you mean?" John asked, "Or all of them?"

Cheeks burning, Sherlock answered, "Just the last one?"

He knew he was tense, he knew he looked it, he knew John picked up on it. But he couldn't help himself. He added a shrug, hoping to make it seem like his heart wasn't ready to stop the moment John opened his mouth.

"Well," the doctor mused, "it's certainly unusual, but to each his own."

Exactly the sort of noncommittal answer Sherlock _wasn't_ looking for.

Conscious of keeping his own manner neutral, Sherlock pressed nervously, "Specifically, I mean... What were your impressions?"

John's brow furrowed as he thought about it. Sherlock chewed his lip and waited.

A short shake of his head, like he wasn't sure what Sherlock was looking for, then John tried, "Um, I guess it's... it makes sense, in a way. I can see how they find it relaxing, like they said. As an outlet."

Sherlock was ready to explode. John wasn't averse to it as a remote concept, at least. Promising so far, but not enough to proceed with.

"Have you ever known anyone who was... into it?" Sherlock asked.

John gave a soft, nervous chuckle. "Not that I'm aware."

Then a frown crossed John's face. He studied Sherlock, trying to read him.

"Why," John said slowly, "you haven't, erm, deduced that one of my friends is... " He blinked wide and leaned in as though there was the chance of someone hearing them gossip. "God, do I want to know who? That's it, isn't it. Someone we, or I, know is into that?"

Sherlock baited him with another calculated shrug. "Would it be a bad thing?"

"Well, no." John sat back, wracking his brains for the identity of his mysterious closeted infantilist acquaintance. He grilled Sherlock, "Is it someone I work with?"

"Per se--"

"No, wait; one of the blokes at the Yard? I mean, I wouldn't think any less of them for it, but that's, um, quite a secret to keep. In that environment, and all."

"No, no one at the Yard," Sherlock quickly assured him.

"Stamford, maybe?" John raised an eyebrow and urged, "You _are_ going to tell me?"

Sherlock froze. The opportunity was painfully perfect, yet he couldn't move. He opened his mouth to speak, but, voiceless, closed it again.

John sighed wryly, "Of course you're not going to tell me. I'm going to lose sleep on this, you know."

He clicked the telly off and set the remote down. He looked as though he was about to rise and head to bed himself, but instead he stopped and stared as Sherlock suddenly sprang into a flurry of action shaking out his rucked up dressing gown and groping desperately inside the pockets.

Frantic, Sherlock thrust his hand at John, palm open and facing up.

John did not look at it right away. The desperation in Sherlock's eyes held him for a minute first, drawing out his concerned doctor's grimace that Sherlock found equal measures consoling and abashing.

When Sherlock did not waver, John looked down at the detective's hand. 

Sherlock held his adult-sized pacifier with the cherry red mouth guard. It sat on his skin innocuously between the two men, silent and inanimate yet screaming at the same time.

John dragged his eyes up again, to Sherlock's.

"... _You?_ "

Sherlock licked his dry lips and whispered guiltily, "Me." 

John gave another wide blink of disbelief and an incredulous-sounding exhale as he regarded Sherlock and the thing in his hand.

Sherlock was about to pocket the stupid thing and scurry to his bedroom lair when John surprised him by reaching out and gently taking the pacifier from him.

He swore he stopped breathing when John adjusted his grip on the guard and eased it toward Sherlock's mouth. He felt the nipple touch his lips, and they parted for John.

John watched him latch onto it and took a breath that sounded as shaky as Sherlock felt.

Dropping his hand, John said in one big whoosh, "I've been really worried about you, you know? Weeks ago already, it's like you just _crashed_. And there was nothing for it, because there was work to be done and lives depended on you. But you didn't bounce back, really. And then since Monday I've barely managed to get two words out of you, and I know that's normal but, God, Sherlock, you have no idea how hard it is not to worry."

The air around them changed, both heavier and lighter with the released energy of mutual confession.

That did it. Sherlock couldn't stop himself from crying now. He didn't mean to make Daddy worried. He didn't want Daddy to feel bad. John felt bad and it was all his fault.

He suddenly couldn't look at John. He stared at his lap instead, unseeing through too many tears, so he didn't realise John's shifting was to scoot across the couch and take him into a bracing hug.

John's strong arms squeezed a sob out of Sherlock, and after that one was out Sherlock found it impossible to keep quiet. He wailed and hiccoughed around his nippie, snivelling over John's shoulder, scarcely able to believe John really was holding him and rubbing his back and not running away or offering some show of revulsion like Sherlock had prepared himself for.

It felt... not exactly wrong, to have someone comfort him, but too good to be true. Too good to last. This was a dream he would wake up from any moment now. Sherlock's shoulders shook harder. Finally he hyperventilated himself into a semi-numb semblance of calmness and quieted down.

John continued to rub his back for a few minutes more, not drawing away until a long, jaw-popping yawn interrupted Sherlock's waning sniffles. Sherlock looked utterly crestfallen at the loss of contact, but John kept one arm loose around him while he reached up with the other hand to feel Sherlock's forehead. 

He eyed Sherlock critically and said, "I think you should go to bed. We can talk about this in the morning, okay?"

Not daring to push for resolving it now instead, though he was dying to, Sherlock sniffled pitifully and nodded.

Sherlock felt John's hands slip away and took that as his cue to stand and leave. 

John surprised him by following along to Sherlock's bedroom and flipping on the light for him. 

Sherlock removed his nippie, set it down in its usual place on the nightstand, and found a hankie for his nose. Meanwhile, John straightened the perpetually rumpled covers on Sherlock's bed and turned the top edge down invitingly.

When Sherlock was more or less done blowing his nose, John told him, 

"Go to the bathroom and brush your teeth. I'm going to get you one more glass of water, and after you drink it you're going to sleep. Go on, get ready for bed."

In a congested, depleted daze, Sherlock didn't have the will to argue. He did as he was told, then returned to his room and stripped off his gown and flannels. He slid into bed and covered himself quickly for decency's sake.

He heard John putting things away and shutting off lamps out in the living room before coming back to the bedroom with a tepid glass of distilled water from one of the jugs Sherlock kept below the sink. John knew Sherlock would refuse tap water. Theirs tasted chalky.

"Thank you," Sherlock murmured thickly. 

He sat up and took the glass from John, who stood by patiently and watched him drink.

John picked up the empty glass after Sherlock set it on the nightstand, and left to put it in the kitchen. He returned and instructed Sherlock to lie down. Sherlock hadn't quite registered that he was still sitting up and staring into space. Once he was prone, John briefly reached down to tentatively adjust the blanket over Sherlock's chest.

"We _will_ talk about this tomorrow, Sherlock, if you still want to." John promised with a pensively terse but warm smile, "I do not think _any_ less of you if that's the sort of thing you like. Whatever you do, it's fine. Now I want you to get some rest. Doctor's orders, alright? Goodnight."

"'Night," Sherlock answered meekly as John turned out the light and slipped out the door. 

Sherlock was unbearably anxious about their impending discussion, but, on the bright side, things were already going far better than he could have hoped for - embarrassing tearful breakdown aside, of course.

Despite himself, he did fall asleep very soon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Readers, you may note that le auteur has valiantly refrained from inserting any What Has It Got In Its Pocketses jokes. You're welcome. (No, really, you don't want me to go there. There are full-blown crossovers there that do not sleep. Not with ten thousand Mary-Sues could you amend this. It is folly.)
> 
> This fic does not have the power to stand against both Jude Law and Andy Serkis.
> 
> The very air you breathe is a flufftastic fume riddled with talc, and baby lotion, and wipes.
> 
> The inspector-detective breathes so loud we could have shot him in the dark.
> 
> Tell me, where is Mycroft, for I much desire to speak with him? (Or would it be 'where is Gladstone' and 'A Balrog of Mycroft'?)
> 
> They're taking Adler's midget to Isengard!
> 
> Oh, gosh. Fly, you fools, to the next chapter, (once I write it,) before I start making more bad puns.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long hiatus. As I've mentioned on other stories in the interim, my writing PC died a year ago and I've had major incompatibility issues between old writing files and the pre-owned POS I'm stuck using until I get a new computer. Reformatting the file so I can read it and keep editing/writing is currently a slow, ongoing process.

Waking up to yet another morning of the previous night's crying-induced congestion was the least of Sherlock's concerns.  
  
John knew. They had yet to discuss it. The bedroom was still littered with toys and baby things Sherlock did not bother to put away before dinner. John saw them, stepped around them when he helped Sherlock get ready for bed. There could be no denying it now, no clever back-pedalling.  
  
Unable to shut his eyes against the impending dawn, a mortified Sherlock slowly drew his pillow over his head.  
  
The big talk. Would John even bring it up, or did he decide in the night that the whole thing was too awkward and change his mind? Did John only capitulate the night before because Sherlock cried? Might today's discussion turn sour in some way that Sherlock failed to anticipate?  
  
Sherlock lied in bed awake for another hour and a half, listening to traffic and chirping birds, and wondered how he'd gotten any sleep at all.  
  
If John decided he didn't want any part of Sherlock's second childhood, Sherlock knew he could go back to hiding it. He could keep it behind closed doors as he did for years already. He would just be much, much more disappointed and lonely than before.  
  
When he deemed it late enough that the sound of the shower running wouldn't bother anyone sleeping in, Sherlock gave up on hiding behind his pillow and locked himself in the bathroom for a long, hot, steamy one.  
  
When he came out, the hallway smelled of tea, tomatoes, and frying bacon.  
  
It was a meek, anxious, and very Little Sherlock who padded the distance to the kitchen.  
  
John startled a bit when he finally caught Sherlock staring from the shadows at the end of the hall. He turned the heat down under the tomatoes.  
  
"Sherlock! Good morning." John's brow furrowed as he gave Sherlock a once-over. He tried to temper his expression and suggested lightly, "Go put some clothes on, okay?"  
  
"Um..." Sherlock looked down at himself. He wrapped his arms across his naked chest and said under his breath, "Oh."  
  
Momentary paralysis from anxiety turned into basking in the heat generated by John's cooking. Distracted, Sherlock did not move.  
  
John switched off the stove, saying again as he plated up the last of breakfast, "Go on. Go get dressed, then come back and eat."  
  
With a short grunt of apparent agreement, Sherlock came back to the here-and-now and did an abrupt about-face toward his bedroom.  
  
Sherlock returned wearing clean underwear, sweatpants, and his dressing gown, looking no different from last night. Before anyone could say anything, Sherlock headed for the pantry cupboard to look for a bottle of juice he remembered seeing a couple of weeks ago.  
  
Instead, he pulled out the half-empty jug of milk, nearly room temperature. Sharing a bemused look with John, Sherlock opened the fridge to put the jug in its proper place, from which he wound up pulling a chilled box of cereal.  
  
Cereal in hand, Sherlock shot John a more pointed look. John coughed in a poor attempt to cover his embarrassment.  
  
"Must not have been paying attention," he excused for himself.  
  
"Mm," Sherlock agreed and put the cereal where the milk had been in the pantry.  
  
Just then, two pieces of toast popped out of the toaster at heart-attack speed, making both Sherlock and John jump. The cereal box slammed down onto its shelf with unintentional force.  
  
John all but flung the scalding hot toast onto the plates, and Sherlock shut the pantry without bothering to find the juice, figuring the tea John made was still hot and would suffice.  
  
John pointed him to one of the plates of hot food at the table, and the two men sat.  
  
Only John tucked in at first. Sherlock, huddled back in his chair, eyed his breakfast disinterestedly out of his peripheral vision. John swallowed a few bites, then stopped and stared at Sherlock expectantly.  
  
Sherlock shrugged and murmured, "I appreciate you cooking, John, I really do... but I'm not really hungry."  
  
John took a sip of tea, then cleared his throat. Rhetorically, he asked, "How many meals have you had this week?"  
  
"... Four," Sherlock sighed, including the teething biscuits in his count.  
  
"And that's, what, seventeen meals short of what the average person eats in a week?" John finished.  
  
Sherlock's stomach turned. He pulled his legs up onto the chair and buried himself in the wide collar of his dressing gown. "'M not hungry," he insisted to his knees.  
  
John sighed heavily. He resumed eating. Curious, Sherlock turned bleary eyes on John and saw the doctor wearing a pensive look as he chewed.  
  
Sherlock turned his head again and rested his temple on his knees, hugging his legs closer. He felt he could have fallen right back asleep. He closed his eyes and listened to John eating.  
  
Eventually, he heard John rise. Sherlock thought nothing of it until he heard the _tump_ of John setting his chair down next to Sherlock's. Sherlock looked up as John sat facing him and pulled Sherlock's lukewarm breakfast closer.  
  
With a determined set to his mouth, John picked up a piece of Sherlock's bacon in his fingers and held it to Sherlock's lips.  
  
Sherlock, stunned that he hadn't had to ask for it, and subconsciously analysing what it might mean that John went this far to make him eat, gawked at it and meekly opened his mouth for John.  
  
John helped him take a bite, and then another, feeding him with utmost patience as Sherlock's tired mind and body jointly protested eating too quickly.  
  
Already sluggish as an after effect of the rest of that week - of dealing with a solid backlog of months-worth of stress-processing hitting him all at once - Sherlock feeling his Littleness descending didn't help either. The bites he took were tiny, timid. Soon his world narrowed to this; to nibbling from John's hand like a small animal being rehabilitated, who was only beginning to trust its new caretaker.  
  
This continued until even John could see Sherlock's mouth was getting dry. He set the half-eaten toast down and asked gently, "Can you take a sip of tea for me?"  
  
Bashful, Sherlock procrastinated and rubbed his face into his knees. Something like a whine caught in his throat.  
  
"No? Okay..." Uncertainly, John picked up the mug himself and coaxed Sherlock to lift his head. He brought the mug to Sherlock's lips, tilting it in slow repetition until Sherlock took in total at least a few small sips.  
  
There was something relieving about not having to feed himself, Sherlock realised. He'd known all along that he craved for John to do this for him, particularly out of parent-like adoration, but he had not anticipated how calming, how liberating it would feel to pass that responsibility on.  
  
A hint of a contented smile played across Sherlock's lips, and his eyes glazed over as if hypnotised.  
  
John noticed the change, and, as he set the mug down, the words, "Good boy," just sort of slipped out.  
  
Sherlock's mouth fell open in not quite a gasp. When he closed it again, his smile looked sweeter, his expression completely open. He looked _happy_. Not manic, not enthused as when intrigued, but plainly and simply happy.  
  
Silent with wonder, John used whatever this newfound power over Sherlock was to coax the rest of the toast and tomatoes into him.  
  
"Fantastic," John marvelled as if to the room itself, as he stood with the nearly empty dishes, "you finished just about all of it."  
  
He wondered over it while he washed the grease from his hands.  
  
Sherlock, meanwhile, stayed curled up on the kitchen chair. He turned his head to the other side to watch John at the sink, his gaze still soft and distant.  
  
"Thank you," John heard Sherlock whisper once the water was off.  
  
John smiled, towelling his hands dry, and answered with a gentle, delighted, "Thank you for eating your breakfast."  
  
Sherlock's thumb slipped into his mouth, reminding John that there was a discussion they really needed to have today.  
  
John circled the table and sat back down, dish towel still in hand. Sherlock adjusted so they could look at each other without Sherlock giving up his thumb.  
  
"So..." John began slowly, "Just now, was this sort of a taste of what it will be like if I, ah... if I sort of... took care of you while you're, you know, a little kid?"  
  
Adrenaline shot through Sherlock, and he froze. He dropped his thumb just enough to speak. "You don't have to," he said on automatic. He couldn't force this on John, no matter how badly he needed it.  
  
"I just did," John pointed out with a nervous puff of a laugh. He half-smiled down at the dish towel. "It's... kind of nice, actually. You usually put up such a fight when I try to help you with anything."  
  
"I'm sorry," Sherlock said in a hitching breath before he could stop himself.  
  
John smirked wryly at his hands. "No... No, Sherlock, I know that's just the way you are. Your pride, or whatever; you have a hard time accepting help, don't you."  
  
Frowning upon feeling tears filling his already tired eyes, Sherlock found himself admitting, "Doesn't feel like I deserve it." He bashed his cheek frustratedly into one knee and hugged his legs tighter.  
  
There was a jolt of revelation between them, and it was John's turn to stare wide-eyed. Feelings mentioned openly, feelings of inadequacy... This was a huge admission, coming from Sherlock. Monumental.  
  
Somehow, even after witnessing Sherlock crying, John hadn't realised just how low Sherlock's defences were. But the point drove home now.  
  
John gulped, thankfully not audibly, and asked cautiously, "I see. Does regressing make it easier, then?"  
  
Sherlock nodded. Tears choking him up, the best answer he was capable of voicing was nothing more than a squeaky, "Mm-hm," as he started to cry.  
  
"Oh, God," John muttered helplessly when he saw Sherlock's shoulders shake. Without stopping to think, he wrapped himself around the shuddering ball of detective in front of him, just hugging and letting Sherlock cry. If it worked the night before, hopefully it would work now. He couldn't help wondering, in an unobtrusive whisper, "Is it really this difficult for you?"  
  
"It helps having you around," Sherlock croaked when he could speak again.  
  
"But you don't let me do anything," John reminded him. He squeezed a bit harder, feeling Sherlock melt into his encompassing embrace.  
  
"I'm sorry," Sherlock sobbed again.  
  
"It's okay, shh..." Experimentally, John rubbed the back of Sherlock's neck, trying to soothe him. He spoke into Sherlock's ear, hoping his gentle tone would calm Sherlock down. "So you told me last night you like to regress, and you say it's easier to accept my help when you're like this. Do you want my help in the future?"  
  
"I..." Sherlock's mind stuttered, unable to handle having come to the turning point. Surely this would be where it all fell apart, dooming him to be left with naught but his dreams.  
  
John drew back, apparently thinking Sherlock needed space. Sherlock's breath got shakier for a moment, something akin to shock settling in and preparing him to take John's rejection.  
  
It left him more or less on autopilot, his body cold and his thoughts detached from the rest of him. He stopped shivering, but his fingers and toes, unnoticed, began to turn slightly blue as his blood pressure dropped to conserve precious energy. In part, the cooling effect of the bathwater still evaporating out of his hair on an already chilly morning was also to blame.  
  
"Would it be okay if I call you Daddy when I'm little?" tumbled out before Sherlock could think better of it. With those words, he set himself up for the inevitable fall. He braced himself, unable to look at John now.  
  
John felt his heart twist at the request, and the only possible answer was, "Sure you can, Sherlock. Absolutely, if it helps you. That... even sounds kind of nice." He further checked, "Is that a yes?"  
  
His pulse pitter-pattering in a dizzyingly confused rhythm, Sherlock, light-headed, exhaled with what felt like the last of his strength, "Yes."  
  
"Um, okay... Okay," John collected himself and tentatively reached with the dish towel to wipe at Sherlock's tear-streaked face, reassuring him, "We can work out any details you have in mind, whenever you feel comfortable. For now, though, I think you look exhausted. Do you want to have a lie-down?"  
  
Sherlock finally lifted a hand to wipe at his eyes himself, and nodded with a pitifully grateful smile.  
  
He managed to stay upright long enough to walk to his room, where he congratulated himself on not outright collapsing onto the bed. He sat slowly, still in a hazy frame of mind, still gripped by a shred of dire fear that what John just promised him would be ripped away any second.  
  
John moved in to hug him again. Sherlock felt the doctor stiffen against him, and then John drew back with a frightfully concerned look that confused Sherlock.  
  
"Sherlock, you're _shaking_ ," John exclaimed, gripping Sherlock's arms briefly to confirm it. He felt Sherlock's forehead, then his icy fingers. Quickly, he lifted the blankets and urged Sherlock under them. He fretted as he tucked him in, "You're freezing! Why didn't you put on some slippers, or a warmer shirt?"  
  
"I wasn't that cold." Sherlock frowned, perplexed.  
  
John sighed, sat on the bed, and stroked Sherlock's damp hair back from his eyes.  
  
"Too much excitement, maybe?" John snorted at himself, "I sound like a Victorian physician."  
  
_You_ would _be one to go into hysterics, though_ , John thought at Sherlock.  
  
"No; you're probably right," Sherlock conceded. His threshold for excitement was appallingly low, recently.  
  
John continued to pet Sherlock's hair, pleased that it appeared to calm Sherlock. He looked so frail now, overwrought and drained. John felt himself pale as it struck him that he wasn't kidding himself after all when he mused that Sherlock was probably only another week away from a total nervous breakdown if allowed to go on as before.  
  
"I think you've literally worried yourself sick," John commented, ending in a grimly thoughtful pursing of lips. That was the closest thing to his actual thoughts he dared say.  
  
"Feels like it," Sherlock admitted, absently fidgeting under the blankets - an instinctual action to try and create friction heat inside the covers.  
  
John sighed at him again, lamenting how much Sherlock must have beat himself up to reach this point. His gaze roved about the room in their silence, and an idea formed.  
  
"Do you want your dummy?" John asked, picking up the red one on the nightstand.  
  
Sherlock squirmed onto his side so he could look at it and corrected him, "Nippie."  
  
"Hm?"  
  
"It's a nippy-nip."  
  
"Ah. Okay." John held it close enough for Sherlock to latch on and asked, "Do you want it?"  
  
Sherlock grunted in the affirmative and took it, a happier sort of peacefulness settling over him again as he lied back and suckled. His stomach rumbled, his breakfast finally starting to digest, and John indulgently tugged the blankets down just far enough that he could rub Sherlock's tummy. Sherlock's eyes closed as he relaxed.  
  
Though it was only midmorning, Sherlock could very well have done with another nap. But he wasn't used to being touched, especially not so tenderly, and the novel sensation kept him from falling asleep.  
  
He didn't mind it one bit.  
  
His jaw did tire, though. A couple minutes after Sherlock's suckling stopped completely and he let his mouth hang open, John took the nippie out and put it back on the nightstand.  
  
"Thank you, Daddy," Sherlock mumbled through a lazy smile. The quiet words fell quite short of conveying how the simple, tender action made his heart clench. No one had done for him before what John was doing now; bothering to pay enough attention to Sherlock to guess his needs, without making him say it.  
  
  
Many were the times, over the years, when Mummy or one of Sherlock's grandparents would throw up their hands and frustratedly assert, _"I'm not a mind-reader, Sherlock! I don't know what you want if you don't tell me!"_ It was incredible how little grown-ups really knew.  
  
They apparently thought that a child with such advanced speaking and comprehension skills would be able to articulate his own needs, but there were times when even Sherlock didn't know what it was he wanted. The panging longing inside him was nameless; it didn't seem to accurately fit any of the words he'd learned.  
  
And now, here, with John, despite knowing the right words, there was still an insurmountable blockade between his brain and his mouth that wouldn't let him say them.  
  
_I feel lonely. Hold me, please. I want someone to love me without demanding I call it love, because love means pain to me. John, save me. Rewrite my childhood for me. I don't want to hurt anymore_.  
  
The dam was sealed so very tight. The words were buried so very deep, no amount of clawing upward seemed it would free them.  
  
And yet, when Sherlock was Little, it was as if a pinhole of light promised there was a way to reach the surface. But someone had to be waiting up there to meet him, or the journey was futile. He needed John.  
  
He needed John enough that he would trust, against every instinct he'd cultivated to the contrary, that John would stay true to his word and would be there for him.  
  
He knew it would hurt so much more if John failed in that, but... he wouldn't find out how this would end without a leap of faith.  
  
It struck Sherlock that he'd already taken that leap. If he didn't already subconsciously trust John with this, last night would not have happened. He would have to remember to keep reminding himself of that in future, until he felt secure enough not to worry over it.  
  
  
Outwardly, this long train of thought expressed itself as no more than a subtle change in Sherlock's fidgeting. He drew his hands into protective little fists and rested them close to his chin, the weight of his arms over his chest providing an illusion of defence between him and all the scary uncertainties.  
  
  
John gave in to a whim and kissed his little one on the forehead. Sherlock didn’t complain, didn’t pull a face. Encouraged, John stroked the backs of his fingers down Sherlock’s cheek.  
  
Sherlock opened his eyes, such relief and gratitude shining in their depths that John leaned in and kissed him again as he pulled the blankets back up to Sherlock's bony shoulders.  
  
Then, nodding to the door, John said, “I‘m going to let you sleep, alright? I‘ll be just out in the living room if you need me.”  
  
“Okay.” Sherlock wanted to beg John to stay with him, but knew that he wouldn’t be able to sleep with John in the room at this point. Maybe someday soon, once they were more comfortable in their new arrangement.  
  
John tucked the blankets back up around Sherlock’s shoulders, and left him with wishes of sweet dreams.  
  
John had some Googling to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I seriously thought I was going to have all their ageplay negotiations done in two chapters flat, but it's looking like it'll take more like five now. This is officially the longest fic I've ever written, and it's not even finished! *wipes brow* I'm usually more of a short-story person.
> 
> Your comments keep me going.


End file.
